Wednesday, January 29, 2014
Gifts from God
Katy Perry has admitted that she prayed for big breasts at the age of 11:
“I lay on my back one night and looked down at my feet, and I prayed to God. I said, God, will you please let me have boobs so big that I can’t see my feet when I’m lying down.”
When I mentioned this disturbing confession to the manager of the safari camp, his lips quivered with emotion:
“And God answered her prayers!” he sighed. “I’m going to church this Sunday to pray that all 11-year-old girls grow a big pair of boobs.”
“You are missing the point, manager,” I replied curtly. “This story is a sad commentary on the practice of objectifying women’s bodies, such that even an 11-year-old girl has nothing better to wish for than an oversized bust.”
“You could be right,” mused the manager. “She should have prayed for a perfect ass instead. Small-titted women can always get implants.”
“And small-brained men can always get vasectomies,” I added. “I believe that’s how Homo Erectus died out.”
On returning to the jungle, I thought of the many heavenly blessings bestowed upon the buxom Miss Perry – fame, fortune, good looks…as well as the bountiful bazoomas she holds in such high regard. Not since the Queen of Sheba has a woman been better served by fate.
Yet all is not rosy in the lady’s pleasure garden. Let us not forget her failed marriage to Russell Brand, the degenerate pseudointellectual comedian. It must have been intensely aggravating for Katy to listen to her husband prattle away in his irritating Essex accent, although it was surely his sexual deviancy that caused the estrangement.
“Caaahm on Katy, you can’t expect a bloke who’s been around like I have to get off that easily,” Brand might have said. “Bite my bum for ‘arf-an-hour and we’ll call it quits.”
A big bosom can be a mixed blessing, of course. The great Dolly Parton suffered from back ache after carrying the weight of her humungous hooters. I believe she had them surgically reduced to relieve the strain. Yet the diminishment of her dumplings in no way lessened her popularity. Indeed her career continued to flourish, buoyed by the many poignant songs she wrote on behalf of the hard-pressed redneck. Miss Perry should take heed of her example if she wants to be loved for something other than her jahoobies.
The other great talent of Dolly Parton was her ability to complement her music with clever asides that were usually highly apropos.
"The way I see it, if you want the rainbow, you gotta put up with the rain," she once said.
I often repeat this saying to my females during the rainy season. They invariably respond by hooting with derision, which helps to relieve the stress.
The best Katy Perry quote I could find was this:
“If you’re presenting yourself with confidence, you can pull off pretty much anything.”
That’s no better than a half-truth, and not something I’d dare say to my females for fear that they’d take it literally.
Labels: Breasts, Dolly Parton, jahoobies, Katy Perry, Russell Brand
Wednesday, January 22, 2014
Does this look like a dangerous stunt to you? I put the question because the actor pictured above is boasting about his skill and daring in pulling it off:
“I always take pride in the fact I do my own stunts,” said Zac Efron, a presentable boy from the Disney stable.
The scene was enacted in a film called ‘That Awkward Moment’, which I haven’t seen. I do not question its artistic merit or relevance to the plot. A naked man does not attempt to impregnate a toilet bowl without good reason. What I find impossible to believe is that Master Efron was risking life, limb or lingam by configuring himself in that position. Even if someone had pulled the flush, his todger would have survived to tell the tale. If he wants us to believe it would have been sucked into the vortex he’s even more boastful than I thought. Homo sapiens is not hung like a horse in this part of the Milky Way.
Zac Efron is a lad who seems to have a penchant for bold and unequivocal statements. In an interview for a ladies’ magazine, he was asked whether he would sleep with a woman on a first date.
“I don’t object,” he replied. “Sex is a beautiful thing.”
On this occasion, I believe he said the right thing. It would have been all too easy to give a politically correct answer to avoid appearing wanton and louche. The problem with such a reply is that no one would have believed it. It is better to be thought of as an honest man-whore that a smooth-taking deceiver.
The last fellow I remember saying that he never had sex on first dates was a movie character called ‘Jimmy the Saint’, played by the saturnine Andy Garcia. In the film he appears in, he meets a beautiful girl in a bar and charms her with many words of an extravagantly complimentary nature. After escorting her back to her apartment, she invites him in for milk and cookies or something. He then informs her politely of his first-date rule, and she gives him a look of wistful admiration tinged with aching disappointment. The door shuts and he walks away, only to return twenty seconds later for a coffee and a shag. Rules are made to be broken, even for Jimmy the Saint.
If you haven’t seen the movie, it has the informative (if overlong) title of ‘Things to do in Denver when you’re dead’. I found it immensely fascinating, although I should warn you that it contains many scenes of horrendous violence: a vicious crackpot punches corpses hanging from meat hooks in a cellar; a taciturn assassin called ‘Mr Shush’ goes around shooting people in the anus; Jimmy himself beats up several hoodlums before getting beaten up himself. And the ending is not particularly feel-good either. It’s the kind of film we show to tourists on safari when they return to camp disappointed because they haven’t seen a lion kill.
Labels: Jimmy the Saint, sexual boasting, stuntman, todger, Zac Efron
Wednesday, January 15, 2014
Sexiest woman on the planet
The pop singer Shakira has announced that her fellow pop singer Rihanna is “the sexiest woman on the planet”. She formulated this opinion after spending time with Rihanna on a musical collaboration, which she described as “utopia”. Unfortunately, she made no mention of any Sapphic encounter that would have boosted the credibility of her claim. My suspicion is that Shakira is a bi-curious woman who lacks the nerve to do any serious carpet-munching. Shame on her for being such a poseur and fraud.
According to the Roman church, the sexiest woman alive is a she-devil, although she’s not technically “on the planet” until she gets sent up from Hell. Her mission on Earth is to obtain the soul of an arrogant man – typically some old codger of a professor who hasn’t got laid for the past 20 years. Wrongly believing that his brain is too big for any woman to give him the horn, he invites the succubus into his study and listens to her talk dirty in iambic pentameter. This gives him the shakes and causes him to pant heavily. Pretty soon, he is pricking his forearm with a quill and signing his name in blood on a parchment, giving his soul to the Devil in return for unlimited nuzzling rights.
The Catholic Church, however, cannot be trusted on such matters. It has a vested interest in making people believe that sex is satanic, so they confess all their sins to a masturbating priest. I have never met a she-devil (other than in my dreams), but I doubt they’re particularly sexy, what with the lack of cosmetics and bathing facilities in Hell. How would they wash their hair? Would they even have hair when it’s constantly getting singed? These are the questions that the church wants to sweep under the carpet.
A more reliable source of information about the Devil and his minions is the modern Satanist movement. The New York Satanic Temple has recently unveiled the design of a statue of Satan it wants to place outside the Oklahoma state capitol building. They envisage a seven-foot effigy of their cloven-hoofed Lord sitting on a throne:
“The statue will serve as a beacon calling for compassion and empathy among all living creatures,” said temple spokesman Lucien Greaves. “It will also have a functional purpose as a chair where people of all ages may sit on the lap of Satan for inspiration and contemplation.”
They make it sound quite appealing, but I have a couple of queries. The first issue is plagiarism. Isn’t their proposed statue a rip-off of the one in the Lincoln Memorial? No one’s going to hold Satan in awe if he reminds them of Abraham Lincoln, whom not even Colonel Sanders and the good ol’ boys thought was a good role model for the Prince of Darkness. The other puzzling point is why Satanists in New York want to erect a statue in Oklahoma, a cowboy state full of possums and raccoons. There must be better places for it than that.
Labels: Colonel Sanders, Rihanna, Sapphic, Satanism, Shakira
Wednesday, January 08, 2014
Butt plug prank
The young lady pictured above is Jennifer Lawrence, who is supposedly a talented actress. I say “supposedly” because I have never seen her act. Fame spreads slowly in the African jungle. No one had heard of Charlton Heston until he said “Take your stinking paws off me, you damn dirty ape!” I never held a grudge against him for that – actors are paid to speak lines and the apes in that movie were impostors.
I am displaying a picture of Miss Lawrence because I wish to comment on an anecdote she told on a chat show. What happened was that someone sent a goodly number of butt plugs to her hotel room as a joke. She immediately hid the appliances under her bed so the maid wouldn’t find them. Alas, she underestimated the thoroughness with which these industrious hotel employees attend to their duties. After finding the implements, the maid placed them on her bedside table.
Now I don’t blame Jennifer for hiding the butt plugs. A lady should be discreet about the possession of such toys, particularly to strangers who might be tempted to gossip. But once they were discovered, she shouldn’t have allowed the incident to pass without comment. In her position, I would have made a point of thanking the maid for her diligence.
“I see you found the butt plugs and put them on the table, doubtless after giving them a good polish,” I would have said. “Thank you for arranging them so neatly – do you like them?”
The maid, out of politeness, would have answered in the affirmative, prompting me to insist that she took one as a gift. “Take this purple one and enjoy,” I would have said, pressing it into her hand. The generosity of a gorilla is never refused by any animal smaller than a rhinoceros.
I hope Miss Lawrence will take heed of my advice – she is evidently a comely lass with a bright career ahead of her, but must learn how to improvise in awkward situations.
A young actress whose fame has spread rapidly in the jungle is Miley Cyrus. This is mainly thanks to me. I have made it my business to tell everyone about her bold and brazen deeds, including the use of her rump as a bongo drum.
The latest news about Miley is her participation in same-sex coupling after splitting up with her boyfriend.
“Miley is definitely bisexual,” said a well-informed snitch.
And I am definitely pleased to hear about it, because it’s certain to help her career. Remember Anne Heche, the former girlfriend of Ellen Degeneres? She wasn’t a great actress by any means, but still got starring roles because everyone was interested in private life. As she was obviously the ‘femme’ partner in the relationship, her credibility in playing the love interest of leading men was not damaged.
I personally can’t wait to see Miley starring in a film role which exploits her talents to the full. I could write the script myself. The working title of movie would be ‘My Ass!’
Labels: Anne Heche, butt plug, Jennifer Lawrence, lesbian, Miley Cyrus
Wednesday, January 01, 2014
A tourist at the safari camp advises me to consult Madame Poot if I want to know what fate has in store for me in the coming year. In a fit of curiosity, I visit her webpage and discover that she will answer questions on-line, which is unusually obliging for a fortune teller. I consider typing in a question about the price of coconuts when a thought occurs to me: who exactly is Madame Poot? After clicking around the website, I find the following biographical details:
Madame Poot is a very old fortune teller, and very different from all other fortune tellers. While traveling through some ungodly desert, the engine of her pink 1970's Cadillac convertible died due to lack of oil, so there is where she lives today. She's seen many things in her life, most of which she can't really remember.
This story is superficially convincing, but there are obvious holes in it. Those of us who have visited deserts know that surviving there is no picnic. The Kalahari Bushmen can do it, but they have mastered all kinds of cunning tricks, like hunting for roots and squeezing the moisture from lizards. I, for one, would be parched as a cuttlefish in such a habitat, so how could an old French biddy live there without turning into something resembling a dried prune? The suspicion which cannot be suppressed is that Madame Poot is actually a computer program, created, in all probability, by a geeky teenage boy. I hope his mother tells him he’s not too old for a spanking.
To be honest, I don’t have much time for fortune tellers. Our local witch doctor used read my palm for a bottle of fermented mango juice, but most of what he told me was piffle. He eventually confessed to being a fraud when I held him upside down by his ankles. If I consulted a soothsayer today, it would have to be someone like Miss Solitaire in Live and Let Die, played by the nymph-like Jane Seymour.
Miss Solitaire, if you remember, used to work her magic with the tarot cards, which are far more intriguing than a crystal ball. She was also the last film character I can remember who was proud to be a virgin, not least because her powers depended on maintaining the purity of her flesh. Her career ended, of course, when James Bond deflowered her. It was a dishonourable seduction achieved through subterfuge and deceit, and predictably turned her into a pouting nymphomaniac who couldn’t foretell the ending of a Doris Day movie.
If all else fails, you can always use a Ouija board to hail passing spirits and ask them for their prognostications. This is what the clowns did in my circus days, although the spirits they contacted were usually as ignorant of the future as they were. The most famous one they communicated with was Liberace’s mother, who still hadn’t found out that her son was gay. The lesson for overly inquisitive humans is clear: ignorance is bliss.
Labels: fortune-tellers, James Bond, Liberace, Miss Solitaire